


a burden shared is a burden halved

by cywscross



Series: December Fanfic Challenge [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, DECFANFIC, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Jealous Peter, Language, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:14:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2886131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>(Day 17 - New holiday traditions & Day 24 – Making a childhood holiday wish come true)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘I wish Mom and me can see the sunrise this Christmas.’</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	a burden shared is a burden halved

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Teen Wolf.**
> 
> So, so late but I've had family coming and going all week, and they're not leaving until after New Year's. I'll probably end up posting a few other prompt fills sometime in January at this rate T_T

 

Peter quietly eases the door open and steps outside, breathing in the refreshing chill of winter before letting his gaze slide over to where Stiles is leaning against the balcony railing, staring sightlessly out at the snow-covered front lawn of the newly rebuilt Hale House.

 

He lets the door swing shut behind him before padding over to stand behind the boy. Even through their respective layers, he can feel that Stiles isn’t wearing enough, and that he’s been in the cold for a while now. A shirt and a sweater may be enough for Peter but it certainly isn’t enough for Stiles. It makes Peter frown but all he does is wind his arms around the boy, crowding in close as he rests his chin on one of Stiles’ shoulders.

 

“Not feeling the holiday spirit?” He enquires lightly, nuzzling into the crook of Stiles’ neck. It’s a bit of a relief when Stiles tips his head to the side to give Peter more room, but his only response is a distracted hum of acknowledgement.

 

Stiles has been quieter this past week or so, melancholic and a little distant, and Peter’s noticed despite Stiles doing his best to hide it, though the act has been unravelling more and more with each passing day. If it isn’t for the fact that he’s still quite receptive to Peter’s touches, Peter would worry that Stiles’ uncharacteristic behaviour recently has had something to do with their still rather new relationship.

 

Of course, since it doesn't, that leaves Peter at a loss as to what’s bothering Stiles, and therefore unable to fix it. He hasn't asked yet because they both value privacy; they don’t intentionally keep secrets from each other these days but there are still many things that they've yet to learn about one another, and while those things will reveal themselves sooner or later even without pushing, Peter doesn't like seeing Stiles unhappy, and in his opinion, Stiles has already been exactly that for far too long.

 

So, perhaps it’s time for an intervention.

 

“It’s too cold for you to be standing outside,” Peter continues. “Unless you want to be sick for the rest of the holidays, why don’t we head back indoors?”

 

Stiles sighs but he’s already shivering, and it doesn't take much prodding for him to turn around and lean further into Peter’s chest as if he could leech some of his body heat. Peter can’t say he minds.

 

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles grumbles half-heartedly even as Peter begins leading him back inside. “Are the others still putting up decorations?”

 

“They’re doing the tree now,” Peter confirms as he shuts the door firmly behind them once they're both in the foyer, and Stiles begins to thaw. “I believe they're digging through a box of ornaments that Scott brought over since we didn’t buy enough new ones yesterday. Lydia’s quite picky about making the colour scheme match so it’s taking a while.”

 

This earns Peter a ghost of a smile but it doesn't last. Peter’s jaw flexes, and then he’s tugging Stiles to a halt just as they reach the hallway that leads to the sitting room, trapping the boy against one wall before drawing him into a languid, drawn-out kiss. When Peter pulls away, he feels a momentary thrum of smug pride upon seeing Stiles’ swollen lips and dazed eyes.

 

And then he brushes a thumb over one of Stiles’ cheekbones. “You've been rather out of it lately,” He remarks, and this close, he can feel Stiles flinch a little against him. “Dare I ask what’s wrong? Do you not like Christmas?”

 

A slow wave of grief rolls over Peter like the swell of the tide, and he has to focus on breathing through it until Stiles reels it in again several seconds later.

 

It’s a little frightening, Peter decides, equal parts fond and frustrated as he studies the boy in his arms. Just how much control Stiles has over the deepest parts of his emotions without giving the impression that he has all that much control over _anything_ to begin with. Outwardly, his expression barely changes. His brow knits together, and there’s a downward curl to his mouth, but that’s it. If Peter wasn’t a werewolf, he would think that Stiles was merely displeased or annoyed about the situation in general.

 

As it is though, Peter inhales the lingering sour tang of misery hanging in the air before catching Stiles’ chin with one hand so that the boy can’t avoid meeting his gaze.

 

“Darling,” Peter sighs softly, looking into dull amber that’s usually so much brighter. “What’s wrong?”

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose at the endearment but all he does is pull away from Peter before offering a tight smile. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

 

Peter hums, cocking his head. “Liar.”

 

“Practically chronic,” Stiles agrees shamelessly, and for a moment, he even manages a small smirk. “Come on,” He urges, reaching out to twine his fingers with Peter’s before leading him towards the sitting room where the rest of the Pack is gathered. “This is your first Christmas back in your old home, and I know that even you’ve been looking forward to it.”

 

True enough, though Peter will never admit it, at least not to anyone who isn’t Stiles. It brings back nostalgic memories to see the Hale House back to its former glory again, though the wards protecting it are Stiles’ handiwork instead of Deaton’s this time around. Between his lover and a cryptic druid with an unknown agenda of his own, Peter knows exactly which one he’s willing to gamble his life on.

 

It’s... nice though too, to see the Hale House so alive again. Even Cora and Derek have lightened up, and glimpses of their old enthusiasm for this holiday have been peeking through ever since the Pack was infected with Christmas fever. As for Peter, well, as pathetically sentimental as it sounds, he’s been more or less happy – certainly happier than he has been in the entire decade prior – since he and Stiles started dating. And spending Christmas with Stiles is infinitely better than skulking around alone in his apartment, which is what Peter’s done every year since he woke up from his coma until now.

 

Which is why he doesn’t like the fact that Stiles is depressed over _something_ , and the stubborn boy won’t _tell him_ so that Peter can... can buy some specific ornament or Christmas dessert that Stiles might want, or drive them someplace special that Stiles might like, or kill whoever upset Stiles to make everything better.

 

And there’s no more time for further interrogation at the moment because Stiles is a master in the art of deflection when he wants to be, and he’s rambling out more words now about the mountain of decorations that the Pack went on a shopping spree for yesterday than he did during the actual shopping trip, and Peter can’t get a word in edgewise before they've both rejoined everyone else in the living room again.

 

Peter catches Stiles’ eye and frowns sternly. Stiles shrugs back, not even bothering to play up the innocent act before he slips away to perch on one arm of a couch, surveying the bickering, laughing, chatting throng of excited decorators scattered across the room instead.

 

“Peter, stop standing around and put these up,” Lydia orders, and Peter can’t refrain from arching a disdainful eyebrow at her, but he saunters forward to take the slightly worn-looking glittery ornaments from the banshee all the same. He and Lydia have a stiff cordiality going these days, if only for Stiles’ sake.

 

“It would be my pleasure,” He drawls, smiling at Lydia with the faintest hint of _teeth_. Lydia purses her lips and borderline sneers at him with more scorn than she’s expressed towards him in a while before turning away to sort through the rest of Scott’s decorations.

 

“You too, Stiles,” Lydia commands, eyeing another couple ornaments critically even as she flicks a hand at the box of unopened candles on the coffee table. “You can arrange the candles on the mantel.”

 

“Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am,” Stiles obeys with far more genuine good humour than Peter, but he doesn't hop to it with his usual amount of energy like he normally would. Stiles doesn't have that oversized crush on Lydia anymore but he still tends to treat the banshee with more care and courtesy than he does most people, especially since the two of them seem to have claimed the position of each other’s best friend. Even right now, as Stiles wanders over to the candles and starts breaking them out of their box, it’s not hard for Peter to catch the way Lydia slants a sideways look of poorly concealed concern in an oblivious Stiles’ direction.

 

The moment passes without comment, though Lydia does reach out to squeeze Stiles’ hand as he drifts by, silent as a ghost compared to his typical self. Stiles lifts his head and glances at Lydia, startled, but he obviously comprehends the question in her eyes judging by the reassuring smile he summons up for her, and it looks real enough. Lydia smiles and nods back, and Peter gets the sudden, unwelcome feeling that – unlike him – Lydia knows exactly what’s wrong.

 

Peter deliberately turns away and very carefully does not crush any of the ornaments in his hands like he wants to. He knows that there’s nothing but a solid friendship between those two these days, and Stiles is nothing if not devoted once he commits to something, but it still chafes at his own possessive nature whenever Scott asks for Stiles’ help in a way that says he wholly expects Stiles to drop everything and bail him out of trouble (and Stiles always does), or when Lydia announces that she’ll be bunking over in Stiles’ single-bed dorm room because her roommate is being irritating again (and if Peter happens to visit the next day, it’s always irritating for _him_ to smell Lydia all over Stiles’ bed where they fell asleep together after studying or painting each other’s toenails or whatever), or even when Malia drapes herself over Stiles’ lap without a care in the world and scents him – and is willingly scented back – like it’s second nature because the dating may not have worked out beyond a few kisses (which was the best outcome for everyone involved since Peter really didn't want to have to kill his own blood kin _again_ ) but Stiles is still Malia’s unofficial Alpha no matter who the official Alpha of Beacon Hills is.

 

It’s _infuriating_ sometimes (all the time) the way they all act so familiarly with Stiles, and yes, one of them is Stiles’ childhood friend, and another has become one of Stiles’ closest confidantes, and the last has Stiles to thank for being able to even _function_ amongst civilization, but it’s _Peter_ who first saw Stiles for what he really is, Peter who first noticed and accepted without reservation the boy’s innate vindictive darkness that the Nogitsune was so attracted to. It was Peter who appreciated Stiles’ endless potential and respected his sharp intellect and admired his ruthless loyalty _first_ , not those self-absorbed teenagers and his own brooding might-as-well-be-a-teenager nephew who couldn't see beyond their own libidos half the time, and it _chafes_ to know that they still have a right to Stiles even now.

 

But Stiles loves them too, wouldn't put up with half the shit he does if he doesn't, and he’ll do anything for Pack, and that’s something Peter can – if grudgingly – tolerate as a fact of life.

 

What he _can’t_ tolerate is the fact that any of these people can believe that they have _more_ of a right to Stiles than _Peter_ does. _Why_ does Lydia know something that’s bothering _Peter’s future mate_ while Peter doesn’t? Did Stiles tell her but not him? How is that at all fair?

 

He takes a measured breath before hanging up the last ornament on a high branch of the tree. He sounds petulant and jealous even in his own head. Stiles would never let him live it down if he heard.

 

No matter. Peter can simply ask again when he gets Stiles to himself later. His boy may be good at deflection, but Peter is equally proficient at persuasion.

 

“Hey, I remember this! Stiles, dude, remember this?”

 

Peter peers around the tree, vaguely interested in what Scott has to say for once because the surprised noise that Stiles makes is quite possibly the most positive emotion he’s shown all week.

 

“You still have that?” Stiles is squinting at a bright green handmade ornament that Scott just scrounged up from the box, red crayon scribbled all over the bauble in a child’s handwriting.

 

“Isn’t that... Isn’t that the ornament wish thing we did for art class back in... what, fourth grade? Fifth?” Lydia interjects, inspecting the ornament with something like indulgent amusement. “‘I wish I didn’t have asthma.’ Well, looks like you got your wish, Scott.”

 

Scott chuckles like he never could have back before he truly accepted being a werewolf. “Yeah, guess I did, though I wouldn't have dreamed that becoming a werewolf would be the cure.”

 

“What ornament wish thing?” Kira pipes up, head tilted curiously as she takes in the tree decoration.

 

“It was a class assignment, just for fun, not worth actual marks or anything,” Lydia explains airily. “We were all given a blank ornament that we could colour, and then we were supposed to write something we wanted for Christmas on it.”

 

“What did you wish for?” Malia enquires from where she’s wrestling distractedly with the string of lights on the ground that’s only getting more tangled by the second.

 

Lydia actually tinges a light pink, looking mildly embarrassed. “I wished for- I wanted a snowstorm for Christmas.”

 

Everyone blinks at her. “That’s pretty... tame,” Kira ventures, looking somewhat bemused.

 

Lydia huffs out an annoyed sound but – eventually – she reluctantly admits, “A snowstorm would've kept my parents home from all the parties they always attended.”

 

Ah. So even Lydia Martin had dreams like that. Peter isn’t too surprised. This entire pack is made up of broken people, some more so than others.

 

Lydia scowls at the room at large, challenging anyone to comment on her moment of honesty. Nobody does; it’s not funny enough to joke about – even those who haven’t known Lydia since they were all children can sense that – and no one wants to get on the bad side of their resident genius banshee anyway.

 

Peter barely pays the minimal attention to this byplay. Instead, his attention is on Stiles again, who’s gone even blanker and paler than before, his scent a maelstrom of conflicted emotions, and he’s staring vacantly at the ornament in Scott’s hands like he’s remembering something that he doesn't necessarily want to remember.

 

Peter only has time to take two steps towards the boy before the slightly discomfiting silence from before is broken by Liam reaching into the box and fishing out another ornament, painted blue with white dots of snowflakes here and there, but almost identical to Scott’s ornament in that there is also black lettering scrawled over the middle.

 

Stiles freezes. Peter is already opening his mouth to growl a warning at Liam even though he doesn't know exactly why, but it’s too late.

 

“Hey, you have Stiles’ here too!” Liam exclaims, raising the ornament by its string, and even Scott whips his head around in alarm this time. “‘I wish Mom and me can see the sunrise this Christmas.’ Wow, I had no idea you were a mama’s b-”

 

Liam chokes. He isn’t the only one, mostly because the abrupt _riptide_ of grief that explodes from Stiles like blood gushing from an open wound is instantly identifiable to even the newest wolves there. Cora staggers back and trips over the leg of a chair, and Derek actually gags a little. Malia whines and jolts forward a step towards Stiles like she wants to provide comfort, but Peter instantly glares a threat at her ( _no one goes near his Stiles except Peter when he’s this vulnerable_ ), and she grudgingly stays put.

 

Peter himself has to grit his teeth against the snarl that’s trying to crawl out of his throat, his wolf torn between lunging across the room to bundle Stiles up somewhere safe, and tearing out the throats of everyone in the general vicinity for _hurting Stiles_.

 

But then – before he can move – it’s gone again, all those emotions smoothing over in a way that suggests an ocean on a cloudless night, deceptively calm on the surface with a far more treacherous monster lurking underneath, just waiting to devour the entire world whole.

 

In this, Stiles and Peter have always been similar. When they feel, they can feel either too little or _too much_.

 

“I could swear I threw that out.” Stiles’ voice is wince-worthily detached, stilted and clinical in a way that makes even Scott cringe.

 

“I, uh, I-” Scott hastily reaches out and snags the ornament out of Liam’s stunned hands. “I might’ve... saved it.”

 

Stiles’ hands clench into fists before relaxing and then balling together again. Then, without another word, he spins on his heel and strides for the door, never looking back – never looking at anyone – as he takes his leave. They all hear the jeep start before pulling away from the Hale House.

 

Peter inwardly twitches, wanting nothing more than to head out after Stiles, but-

 

“What is the significance of that ornament?” He asks flatly, voice frigid as he drills holes into Scott.

 

It’s Liam who squirms though, looking confused and faintly indignant, most likely because Scott is actually levelling a rather disappointed look at the idiot. “I didn't mean it as an insult or anything! I mean it’s _Stiles_ ; he’s usually the one who insults everybody else, and I’ve never seen anybody who manages to get under his skin. And his mom died ages ago, right? Like, before even Derek and Cora’s family, and they’re okay bringing up-”

 

A deep, slow, rumble of a growl rolls up from Peter’s chest like an oncoming storm, and Liam goes as still as a cornered rabbit, gulping and flashing a nervous look at Peter.

 

“You're just digging yourself a deeper hole, runt,” Cora sneers, and her claws are out and unconsciously digging into the leather of the armchair. “ _Shut up_.”

 

Derek on the other hand doesn't make a sound but his expression is set into grim lines, and he looks positively morose at having been reminded of his dead family members. He – along with Cora and Peter – may be alright with Talia or Laura or one of the others being brought up in passing when they have some connection to the latest supernatural crisis or even when they’re mentioned in idle conversation, but certainly not when they’re flung out so casually – so _disrespectfully_ – as an example in the epic tragedy of Who Died First.

 

“Alright, everyone just- just calm down,” Scott cuts in, grimacing like he’s regretting absolutely everything about the last five minutes. Peter narrows his eyes at him again, and Scott heaves a sigh. “Look, I don’t know if I should say-”

 

“Then don’t,” Lydia interrupts, coolly examining her nails while simultaneously pinning Peter with a confrontational look of disgust. “It’s not like Peter would care anyway.”

 

Peter sets his sights on the banshee, and if he lets his lips peel back like they want to, his fangs would show.

 

“Oh?” He says silkily, gliding forward, feet silent against the floorboards. “Wouldn’t I? Then am I to assume that a girl whose parents only ever know how to throw money at her to gain her favour would empathize better with the loss of a family member then?”

 

Lydia subtly flinches, but her shoulders square and her eyes flash murder, and Peter wants nothing more than to rip that pretty little throat out. He knows that most of the Pack don’t quite approve of his and Stiles’ relationship, but it’s been a while since any of them – especially those closest to Stiles – has actively attacked either of them about it.

 

“That’s enough!” Scott barks, looking between Lydia and Peter with an apprehensive air like he’s watching the beginnings of a war. “Peter, back off.”

 

Peter’s lip curls with derision but he halts his advance. It isn’t as if he’s _really_ going to kill the girl.

 

“Hey, Uncle Peter wasn't the one who started it, McCall!” Cora snaps from the side, foot tapping testily against the ground.

 

Scott holds up his hands in a placating manner, Stiles’ ornament still gripped in his right. “I know, I know, I just-” And then even Scott tosses a disapproving look over at Peter, and Peter’s starting to get the feeling that somebody is missing something here. “I get where Lydia’s coming from.”

 

Peter suppresses his first instinct (something between sending Scott to the ER and committing murder) and deliberately raises an enquiring eyebrow instead. “Do you?”

 

Scott shrugs defensively. “I’m just saying, I can understand you and Derek and Cora being thrilled about celebrating Christmas in your old home again-” (Excuse him, Peter has not been _thrilled_.) “-and I know you and Stiles are a- a bit of a package deal these days-” Scott temporarily looks like he’s bitten into something sour. “-but did you have to force Stiles to celebrate with you too?”

 

Peter eyes the True Alpha for a long, contemplative moment. “...I’ve noticed that Stiles doesn’t seem to like Christmas very much, but I wasn't aware I was forcing him into anything.”

 

Scott gives him a purely incredulous look. “Of _course_ you’re forcing him into it! Why else would he-”

 

“You...” Lydia is still frowning but some of the hostility that’s been etched into her features all day fades a little. “You don’t know, do you?” Realization dawns on her face, along with a sudden wealth of exasperation. “And Stiles didn’t tell you.”

 

Peter’s lips thin, his fount of forbearance officially dried up. “ _What_ don’t I know? Why did that ornament set him off?”

 

If he doesn't get some answers within the next ten seconds, heads are going to roll, and he can’t guarantee that it’ll only be in the metaphorical way.

 

Scott and Lydia exchange a look before – as one – they turn to scan the room.

 

“Huh, sometimes I forget you guys are all new to Beacon Hills,” Scott says, and then hurriedly tacks on, “I mean, some of you are, or you’ve been away for a long time...”

 

He dithers for a minute longer, and then he sighs again, looking down at Stiles’ handmade decoration.

 

“Stiles and his mom,” Scott begins. “They used to go up to Clarkia Peak – the highest point in Beacon Hills – every Christmas to watch the sunrise together. It was a tradition for the two of them. They’d leave way early, while it’s still dark, pack hot chocolate, throw on enough layers over their pajamas, and head out in the jeep. You know that car used to belong to Stiles’ mom? That’s why Stiles doesn't let anybody drive it, and why he flips out anytime somebody even comes close to scratching the paintjob. Anyway, the year we did this-” He waves the ornament in the air. “-Mrs. Stilinski was already really sick, and she was stuck in the hospital fulltime by then. The doctors- The doctors said that she probably wouldn't make it past Christmas, and by that point, she was already- she was pretty out of it. Sometimes, she wouldn't even recognize Stiles or even the Sheriff. But I heard from Stiles that the last thing she ever asked during one of the few times that she was still lucid was that she wanted to watch one more sunrise on Christmas with Stiles, and Stiles promised her that he’d wheel her up onto the hospital roof so that they could watch it together.”

 

He pauses, and his eyes are over-bright. “Stiles planned it all too, swore me to secrecy and everything about how he was going to sneak back into the hospital after visiting hours to wait with her the whole night, and then help his mom into a wheelchair and everything, and he got me to steal my mom’s schedule of all the rounds that the nurses on the night shift would be making just so he’d be able to get Mrs. S into the elevator to the top floor, and then he’d carry her up the stairs to the roof. I didn’t-” His voice wavers. “I didn’t know he made it his Christmas wish until later. He wouldn’t show me, and he ended up not turning it in. He said that Christmas wishes might be like birthday wishes – you know, like they don’t come true if you don’t keep them secret – so he didn't want to chance it, just in- just in case.”

 

Silence falls over the room, and even with the lights that are already up, winking a merry red and green, the atmosphere stays as heavy as heartache. Nobody moves, and Kira has tears glimmering in her eyes. Cora looks angry, which is pretty much her default expression for every other negative emotion, and Derek is staring blankly out the window at the snow swirling down from the heavens. Malia’s eyes gleam blue, and the lights in her hands have been partially mutilated. Lydia just looks tired and resigned, and she watches them all like she can’t understand why all the misfortune in this town always has to happen to one of them.

 

On occasion, Peter wonders the exact same thing.

 

“Did-” Liam clears his throat, and he looks a bit guilty and a lot tentative even as he opens his mouth. “Did Stiles and his mom get to see the sunrise?”

 

Cora snorts and kicks at a clumsily wrapped present. “Obviously not, moron, do you really have to ask?”

 

Scott scrubs a weary hand over his face. “No, she- Mrs. S didn’t make it.” His eyes dart over to Peter. “She died on the twenty-fourth, a few minutes before midnight. Stiles was with her when she passed away.”

 

Peter doesn't so much as blink. In fact, he stops breathing altogether for a few seconds as his mind races to process what Scott has just revealed.

 

“Twenty-” Kira looks horrified. “But- But that’s Christmas Eve. That’s _today_!”

 

Scott automatically draws Kira to his side. He doesn't look away from Peter.

 

“We thought you knew,” Lydia speaks up quietly, gaze also focused on Peter, and that’s probably the closest she’ll ever come to an apology for him. “The death of the Sheriff’s wife was pretty big news in a small town like this, but of course, the Hale fire took place about a month before that, and the rest of you weren’t even living here yet, so none of you would know.”

 

_And Stiles didn’t tell him._

 

Without another word – much like Stiles – Peter turns and stalks out of the room, never stopping as he storms out the front door, down the steps, and to his car. Nobody tries to call him back or stop him.

 

He’s out of the Preserve and driving aimlessly around town – nearly running over six different pedestrians in the process – before he has the presence of mind to pull over, and even then, he almost lashes out and breaks a window or two.

 

 _Thrilled_ , Scott said, and if even _Scott_ noticed, then of course Stiles would've picked up on it too, and the stupid boy is exactly the type to shut up about his own problems because he’s under the mistaken impression that Peter would... what? Prefer celebrating Christmas in a house he’s already moved back into and can see anytime during the other eleven months of the year over spending it with Stiles to make sure the boy isn’t hurting too much?

 

Peter slams a fist against the steering wheel, and then he starts himself on a breathing exercise from the meditation book that Stiles bought for him as a gag gift (until Stiles caught him reading it one day anyway). Once he feels his wolf settle as much as it can, he calmly starts his car again and merges back into the streets currently filled with last-minute shoppers.

 

It’s six in the evening on Christmas Eve. Peter has a few things to get ready before he can go find Stiles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The house is dark and cold, and Stiles sort of wants to suffocate himself with a pillow. Jesus, he’s a mess this time of the year; one offhand comment from _Liam_ of all people and he turns into a pitiful wreck. Stiles is never going to live this down.

 

Even worse, Peter was there, and after seeing how happy the werewolf was – breezing from store to store for fancy decorations fashionable winter clothes, and quietly but willingly regaling Stiles with tales of his (dead) nephews and nieces and sister and in-laws – Stiles swore to himself that he would shelve his ridiculous issues aside for once instead of ruining Christmas for Peter as well. Besides, he figured that it’s been over a decade since his mother’s death; surely more than enough years have passed, and it was high time for Stiles to grow the fuck up and stop moping.

 

Obviously, that didn't happen, but he thought he was doing a pretty good job of keeping a lid on it for the most part. He’s certainly doing better than his dad, whom he hasn't even seen in over a week now, and today, well, his father will definitely be drinking himself into a stupor down at the station once his shift is over for the day, and Stiles probably won’t see him again until after New Year’s.

 

And here Stiles is, brooding like- like _Derek_ in a cocoon of blankets on his bed, effectively spoiling Christmas for Peter after just walking out of the Hale House like he did hours earlier.

 

Stiles’ stomach gurgles. He should probably get up and go find something to eat. He hasn't eaten in... a while.

 

He wonders if it’s Christmas yet, and just like that, his mom’s thin, sickly face flits through his mind, and another wave of depression crashes into him.

 

God, what kind of son was he? Not even able to fulfill his own mother’s dying wish. Not even able to scramble for a doctor or call his dad or do _something_ the second the machines started shrieking. No, instead, he stood around sobbing uselessly and begging his mom not to go-

 

He’s shocked out of that line of thought when the doorbell rings, and he almost gets heart failure when it splits the air with a shrill cry. Who the hell is visiting him at this hour? He’s certain that Scott and Lydia would prevent the Pack from invading his home right about now.

 

He debates not answering. But what if it’s an emergency? What if it’s his dad? What if it’s his dad, _drunk_?

 

Stiles runs a sleeve over his eyes before throwing back the blankets and crawling out of bed. He shuffles out of his bedroom and down the stairs, and then he’s at the door, and right now, he doesn't even care if it’s an axe murderer, he just wants this whole damn day – _month_ – to be over.

 

“Stiles.”

 

Stiles stares uncomprehendingly at a pair of dark shoes made for winter before slowly raising his head to meet a pair of familiar blue eyes set in a face he’s come to love.

 

“Peter.” He blinks dumbly for a moment. “What- What are you-”

 

“Do you have a jacket?” Peter asks like it’s a normal occurrence for him to show up at the front door in the middle of the night.

 

“I- Yes?” Stiles frowns. “What’s going on?”

 

“Go get it,” Peter instructs. “Don’t bother changing; just grab something warm. And some shoes.”

 

Stiles has no idea what’s going on, but somehow, he finds himself in Peter’s car, the heater keeping the chill outside, and before he knows it, they’ve pulled out of the driveway and back onto the streets.

 

“Peter, what’s going on?” Stiles persists once more, though only half-heartedly at best. If there’s another Big Bad running around screwing with people’s lives, Peter would've told him already. “Did something happen? Is- Is this about earlier? Look, I’m sorry I ruined-”

 

He trails off when Peter reaches over and gently squeezes the back of his neck. He keeps his hand there, large and warm and grounding.

 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Peter tells him. “There’s just been a change of plans, that’s all.”

 

Part of Stiles wants to ask what this ‘change of plans’ is, but most of him just doesn't care, and in the end, he simply settles deeper into the passenger seat before staring out the window, not really seeing the darkened scenery flashing by.

 

And then buildings become trees, and cement becomes a snow-covered uphill climb, and Stiles goes ramrod straight, almost bashing his forehead into the glass as he jerks forward, recognizing his surroundings even all these years later.

 

Out of his peripheral vision, he can see Peter watching him more than the road. He opens his mouth.

 

And then he shuts it again because he honestly has no idea what to say. He doesn't know if he wants Peter to turn around or keep going or just _stop_ , or even drive straight to Scott’s so that Stiles can go yell at him, so in the end, he doesn't say anything at all. But he doesn't lean back either, or relax, and he doesn't look away from the window for the rest of the ride up to Clarkia Peak.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter stops the car, reaches back to retrieve a stack of thick folded blankets and two thermoses, and then gets out. Then he circles around, opens Stiles’ door, and holds out a hand.

 

Stiles stares at it like he’s never seen it before. Peter doesn't move. The wind croons a doleful melody around them.

 

“I can’t give you your mother back,” Peter begins with uncharacteristic bluntness, and Stiles’ shoulders hunch. “But this tradition is something I _can_ give you. If you discover that you don’t like it, then we don’t have to do it again, but how about we give it a try this year?”

 

Stiles swallows hard. He glances up at Peter, who’s still waiting, patient as time, and then, slowly, he lifts a hand and slips it into the werewolf’s extended one.

 

It only takes a few minutes to get themselves settled at a safe distance from the edge of the cliff, and already, that’s different. Typically, Stiles and his mom would wait in the car until just before sunrise, but with Peter acting as a furnace cranked up to cozily warm level, Stiles is perfectly comfortable seated between Peter’s legs with the werewolf at his back, and extra blankets underneath and tucked around them.

 

“You... You’re not cold?” Stiles asks.

 

“No,” Peter murmurs into his ear. “You?”

 

“’m fine,” Stiles assures, and he is. He’d be hard-pressed to admit it but – these days – he rarely ever feels as safe and content as he does when he’s wrapped in Peter’s arms.

 

Peter hums noncommittally, one hand snaking out to place the thermoses beside them before returning to Stiles’ waist.

 

And then they wait. The forest sprawls out before them beyond the cliff, eerily tranquil, with the darkness pushed back by the glow of the snow and the moon on high, extending all the way to where sky meets land. With only the wind for company, it’s easy for Stiles to imagine himself and Peter to be the only two people left in the entire universe, and the very notion of it takes his breath away.

 

He’s missed this. He hasn't realized just how much he’s missed this until right now.

 

“Stiles?”

 

Stiles presses back into Peter’s chest, hands fumbling for the werewolf’s and wordlessly threading their fingers together. He doesn't know yet if he’ll want to do this again, but for now, this is... this is okay.

 

“Scott told you,” He says instead, and he feels a twinge of annoyance but nothing more than that. The Pack deserved an explanation after Stiles practically had a mental breakdown in the Hale House.

 

“Mm, he told the entire Pack actually,” Peter corrects him placidly. He falls silent for a moment before divulging in a blandly neutral tone, “I would've preferred to have heard it from you.”

 

Stiles stiffens. Peter’s arms tighten briefly around him in response.

 

“...You were so happy about Christmas this year,” Stiles sighs, breath coming out in a puff of white. “I wanted you to enjoy it. And... if I’d told you, you would've insisted on- on doing whatever I wanted, and... well, my Christmases tend to be pretty boring. I don’t really do anything besides stay in bed, or visit my mom’s- my mom’s grave, or leave town and just hop on the first bus to the middle of nowhere. Seriously, I am absolutely shitty company this time of year. Even Scott’s learned to avoid me. He was so surprised when I didn’t drop off the face of the planet this Christmas.”

 

He stops his rambling to draw in a deep breath. The oxygen is refreshingly cold in his lungs. Then he cranes his head around a bit to bury his nose in Peter’s neck, mumbling against warm skin even as his ears burn, “I just wanted you to be happy. Because you aren’t, usually. Not like how you were when you were dragging me around the mall and fitting me with winter jackets, or when Cora came back for the holidays and brought presents that included you, or-”

 

Stiles stutters into silence when one of Peter’s hands slips out of his and curls around the nape of his neck instead, tugging him back so that Stiles has no choice but to stare directly into endless vivid blue.

 

“I was _happy_ to spend Christmas with you,” Peter says, and there’s frustration and exasperation and _why don’t you understand that_ all underscored with a frank sort of honesty that Stiles has almost never heard from Peter Hale. “Whether that’s visiting your mother’s grave or taking a road trip without a destination in mind, I wouldn't have cared. Certainly, Christmas at the Hale House brings back good memories, but I assure you, there’s absolutely no point in it for me if you don’t enjoy it too.”

 

Stiles gapes. Peter rolls his eyes before leaning forward to nip at his bottom lip reproachfully. Stiles makes a spluttering indignant sound.

 

“For someone so clever,” Peter laments somewhat dramatically. “You can be terribly hopeless at times.”

 

Life sparks in Stiles’ eyes, and the werewolf currently facing him smirks openly at him when Stiles instinctively growls. He falls into wolf-like habits on occasion these days. He blames the actual werewolves of course.

 

“So you’re saying,” Stiles huffs skeptically, choosing to ignore Peter’s remark. “You would've rather hiked up a mountain with me or something instead of spending Christmas with your remaining family in your old family home?”

 

“Yes,” Peter answers without hesitation or fanfare. “Even if you had wanted solitude, I would've given you space but followed along behind you. Besides,” His mouth twists with distaste. “I already have to share you with the Pack most of the time. Scott and his penchant for looking to you for advice and even guidance almost all the time-”

 

“Hey, he’s my bro, and he’d be lost without me-”

 

“-and the lovely Miss Martin is lovely indeed in your opinion, but if she sleeps in your bed one more time, I may be forced to carry out extreme measures to ensure that she... _understands_ that you are _unavailable_ -”

 

“ _Oh my god_ , don’t you _dare_ ; you _know_ there’s nothing going on, you psychopath-”

 

“-and of course, there’s Malia, always leaving her scent all over you-”

 

“Are you jealous of _your own daughter_ , Peter?”

 

“You two _did_ have a brief affair-”

 

“Are you ser-? You make it sound like I cheated on you with her! Malia and I weren’t even really dating! Hell, our first kiss happened when I was half outta my mind! That relationship was doomed before it even properly started. And you and I weren’t even a you-and-I back then!”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Peter declares with the sort of possessiveness that Stiles has grown used to hearing but still makes him want to turn red and strangle Peter a little at the same time. “You were always going to be mine. And if we went on a road trip, I would've had you all to myself for weeks. Now I'm starting to regret we didn’t go; it sounds like the perfect vacation.”

 

Stiles almost wants to bang his head against a wall or groan into his hands. “I would've made for bad company, Peter.”

 

“You could never be bad company, darling,” Peter counters easily, and Stiles makes a face at the endearment that his werewolf so very much likes to annoy him with every once in a while. He’s gotten used to it – might even like it sometimes because Peter is never affectionate with anyone, and Stiles is always secretly pleased to be the exception – but it’s still a bit embarrassing.

 

“I admit,” Peter acknowledges before Stiles can refute him. “I’ve smelled the grief off you more and more these past few days but that’s hardly enough to chase me away.” He smirks again, though this time, there isn’t much humour to it. “I do know a thing or two about grief, Stiles. You had no need to try and hide it from me. If you had wanted to talk, or not talk, I’d understand. Keeping it a secret from me though, and badly at that,” Peter gives Stiles a pointed look. “I had to find out from Scott of all people.”

 

Stiles scoffs as he settles back into a more comfortable position, gaze drifting back to the skyline. “I’ve known Scott for years; who else would you hear it from?”

 

He can almost hear Peter’s raised eyebrow. “Okay, me, I know, but-”

 

“You worry too much,” Peter chastises mildly. He’s silent for a long while, long enough that Stiles can’t help turning to take in the werewolf again. Peter is staring out towards the distant horizon as well, with a look on his face that makes it seem as if he’s enamoured with some private thought, but he meets Stiles’ questioning eyes evenly when Stiles glances at him.

 

“Peter?” Stiles prods.

 

Peter shakes his head ever so slightly and asks instead, “You look like you feel better.”

 

Stiles blinks at this non-sequitur. “What?”

 

Peter shrugs casually but there’s a tiny smile on his face that hints at a smug sort of pride. “You sounded more like yourself in the past five minutes than you have in the past month.”

 

Stiles straightens. “I didn’t-” He stops. Now that Peter mentions it...

 

Slowly, Stiles turns to regard the scenery before him again. A dull ache throbs in his chest when he thinks of his mother, of how he wished she could be here with him, waiting for the sun to rise, but at the same time...

 

At the same time, the pain is no longer quite as overwhelming as before.

 

Huh.

 

“...Don’t get a big head, creeperwolf,” Stiles mutters for lack of anything less awkward to say.

 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Peter assures, but there’s a grin in his voice, and no small amount of relief powering it, and Stiles can’t bring himself to mind.

 

Stiles snorts with a resigned sort of fondness. He’s resigned about a lot of things when it comes to Peter Hale these days.

 

Conversation dwindles to a companionable silence after that, interspersed with occasional exchanges of words as they wait for daybreak.

 

“Still okay?” Peter enquires when they're sipping at the hot chocolate.

 

“Now who’s worrying too much?” Stiles snarks back.

 

Peter sinks human teeth into his neck in response, not breaking the skin but leaving a bruise nonetheless. Honestly. Animal.

 

“I haven’t been the only one worried,” Peter discloses with mock grouchiness. “Malia was sitting on your front doorstep when I pulled into the driveway. She only took off after I got there.”

 

Stiles blinks in surprise. That’s... unexpected, even for Malia. At the very least, _he_ didn’t expect that.

 

“And I have no doubt that at least one person has tried to contact you since you left the House,” Peter continues.

 

That... does sound like a reasonable guess. He fumbles for the phone that he never removed from his jacket. The power’s pretty low but there are two texts flashing on the screen.

 

 _:Call me in the morning stilinski.:_ is from Cora, demanding and threatening and subtly concerned all at once.

 

 _:do what cora says:_ is from Derek, gruff and awkward and long-sufferingly worried.

 

There’s also a missed call each from the others, even Liam, and Stiles grips his phone a little harder before tucking it away again.

 

“See?” Peter interjects knowingly. Stiles elbows him lightly. Neither of them says anything else after that.

 

When dawn finally arrives, Stiles is actually dozing on Peter’s shoulder, and the werewolf is the one who has to jostle him awake.

 

The first beam of orange-yellow light cuts through the sky like a shooting star, and then it flares outwards to chase away the surrounding darkness like watercolours across a pitch black canvas. The streaks of sunshine lights up the world in a brilliant array of soft reds, oranges, and yellows, gradual but steady, and Stiles doesn't even remember to blink until his eyes begin to sting.

 

The wind sweeps through his hair like his mother’s fingers once did, and Stiles’ throat closes for a long minute before he manages to clear it. For just a moment, he remembers his mother’s bell-like laughter, and her throaty voice as she sings to the forest, and even the feel of her slender hand in his.

 

And then he comes back to himself – to the present – with a shuddering gasp of crisp winter air, and the memory of his mother fades to the back of his mind, replaced by the solid warmth at his back, and the strong hands – capable of ripping someone’s heart out – still holding his own.

 

“I think-” Stiles breaks off, and then starts again. “I think... maybe we can come here again next year. If you're okay with it.”

 

Peter smiles against his ear. “That’s fine with me. It can be a Christmas tradition of our own from now on. If you’d like.”

 

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Stiles nods, and an invisible weight seems to lift from his chest. He thinks maybe he can let go of a ghost long gone after all if- “But you have to be here too.”

 

Peter’s smile is faint in the corner of his eye, but genuine too, and soft at the edges in a way that the werewolf once forgot how to be.

 

“Of course,” Peter promises readily. “Always.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Later, when they eventually make their way back to the Hale House and meet up with the rest of the Pack again, Stiles spies his old ornament hanging on the tree amongst all the other decorations.

 

_‘I wish Mom and me can see the sunrise this Christmas.'_

 

Stiles didn’t quite get that, and he never will again.

 

Peter steps up beside him and hands him a plate of food, blue eyes crinkling with a smile.

 

But what Stiles does have – while different and new – isn’t something he’ll ever be willing to give up either.

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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